We like to define life in abstract terms. “Life is a cycle, life is an ongoing transformation, life is both the sunrise and the sunset”. There is truth in these statements, but not in a literal sense, because in a literal sense these statements don’t mean anything of tangible worth to you. We want so much from life, either secretly or subversively, that defining it loosely and in the abstract gives us leeway for procrastination. Maybe ‘procrastination’ is harsh, but it carries my observations well. Talking about life is my preferred way to assess how far another has his head up his own asshole, which suggests I am surely close to the center of my own being.
A major incentive seems to be an attempt to achieve comfort. A pervasive idea that is dismantled by nature. To walk on the comfortable blanket of fitness you need to constantly tear muscle fibers, cause oxidation of the body, harness your own mind and learn to accept recovery. Even then fitness is temporary and I feel comfort runs parallel. Comfort shows itself as an empty pursuit because it is simply another abstract idea that requires constant attending to. Even the mind becomes sluggish, unable to adapt to an ever-changing environment, a static coil no longer hum sprung by the fluidity of activity.
An ironic life, and to say life is ironic means we fall back on storytelling – myth creation. We create a premise, context, characters, archetypes etc. through which to embrace our own involvement. Tragedy, comedy, heroism blahblahblah. Don’t get stuck in some shit story. Recreate and reinvent control. Achieve a level where comfort is no longer the primary concern and fluidity reappears by itself.